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“This is sexy.” He motioned to the picture, the familiar weight of the machine soothing him. “With people it’s different. It doesn’t turn me on to give pain to a complete stranger, especially when I’m doing my best to concentrate and not yell at them when they move.”
He’d had people actually tug him away with only a dark streak on their skin before they called it quits. One guy had screamed, nearly breaking his eardrums the moment he touched his skin with the buzzing needles.
“Does it really hurt, though?” asked Clint, glancing at the machine. With the power off and no needle, it really did seem like an unassuming cylinder. Some could picture an image coming from it, steered by his hand and inspiration.
“It depends on the person and the tattoo.” Scotland shrugged as he slipped into work mode. He’d been asked that question more times than he could count.
Some people expected it to be worse than childbirth, while others were surprised to feel the fleeting discomfort roll over their skin.
“I’ve had a few who cried through the whole thing, and I’ve had people fall asleep in the chair.” He’d had a few people get turned on, too, but he was keeping that shit to himself. Client confidentiality and all.
“But what does it feel like? I’m curious,” said Clint, looking to the chair. It was a type of material that looked like leather but was easy to keep clean and sanitary. It was close to what the club seats were made of, which Clint probably recognized.
No. I really shouldn’t. “You want to try?” Crap.
Clint wasn’t a stranger, and he wasn’t just a friend, either. Relationship or not, Clint had wedged himself inside Scotland’s heart a long-ass time ago, and there was no going back from that. Still, I should be trying to resist.
“Fuck no.” Clint took a step back, his eyes going wide.
Scotland chuckled, reaching for the alcohol and petroleum jelly. “I won’t ink you. I’ll just stab you a little.”
Clint shot him a mild glare. “Is that a pick-up line?”
I wish.
“No.” Shaking his head, Scotland pressed his lips together. “I don’t go back on my word, Clint. You made it very clear you aren’t interested in anything between us.”
It could be that Clint was just testing him, but he didn’t want to fail. Clint wasn’t ready, and he respected that to his very soul. The moment Clint changed his mind, Scotland was going to be ready with bells on and no pants.
“Sorry.” Clint rubbed the back of his head, heat flushing over his cheeks.
“Or we could just head straight to the grocery store.” Scotland set the machine back on his desk for his next appointment.
“Because the grocery store is so much more exciting than watching two asses all day,” said Clint, rolling his eyes. “I’ll bite. But if you write ‘Mother’ on me somewhere, I’ll sick the Russian twins on your ass.”
That was a very real threat that Scotland did not want to tempt fate with. The twins were notorious mob enforcers who had been kicked out of the old club, only to be welcomed into the fold once more for reasons he tried not to be curious about. They were also terrifying motherfuckers.
“Where do you want it?” asked Scotland, his hands shaking as he reached for a few needles and set them out before preparing the other supplies. He shook out his hands. The last thing he needed was to accidentally get carried away and scar Clint.
“Where hurts the least?” asked Clint, hiking himself up onto the lounge chair that Scotland used. The seat was comfortable and soft, and Clint tested it with his hand, seemingly searching for a flaw in the material.
“Arm, I’d say. The outside of your forearm.”
Clint rolled up his sleeve, the strip of flesh more tantalizing with the smell of ink and antiseptics in the room. It was funny. He’d seen Clint naked, fucked him even, but that little peek had him riled.
“I’ll get some music.” He turned to his computer screen, opening up one of his music apps as he waited for his nerves to calm. It wasn’t even a real tattoo, just a little line that would heal into nothing. “Let’s start with your forearm.”
He prepped the spot the same as he would any tattoo, minus the stencil. Slipping on a new pair of gloves, he dipped a fresh needle into the jelly. He grasped Clint’s wrist, turning his arm until he found a spot that wouldn’t be too obvious, staring at the stretch of skin.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” The machine hummed softly as he turned it on, the muted vibrations of the needle calming him. It was so much better than a pencil or paintbrush. He could smell the sweat on Clint’s skin and feel the nervousness radiating from him like any other virgin who sat in his chair.
But Clint was different.
It was relaxing, like a long drink on a warm beach with the wind in his hair and a freshness on the breeze. It was what he knew and was best at, that artist inside him peeking out. And the moment he touched the lubricated needle to Clint’s arm, routine enfolded him, his nervousness draining away.
He drew a line, grabbing a towel to wipe away the tiny drop of blood left behind. It was only a few inches long—a tiny red mark among a few freckles that would heal away to nothing. Clint had probably gotten those freckles sitting in his backyard, watching the donkeys as they grazed in the field.
Scotland had found him watching them almost every day, the sight more peaceful than he cared to admit. It was something he could stamp on his memory that was proof of Clint in his life. The freckles would take a long time to fade, and every time Clint stepped out into the sun, they would rise back to the surface of his skin.
